


Cold Heart, Warm Hands

by mogwai_do



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, M/M, Riding Crop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 06:11:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mogwai_do/pseuds/mogwai_do
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know what they say...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Heart, Warm Hands

He'd been called cold hearted often enough that it rarely bothered him, not until recently anyway, but then it wasn't until recently that there was anyone whose opinion mattered to him. Donovan was an idiot, only a small step above Anderson, but occasionally she had a tongue that could cut like paper, so deep and quick that you didn't even realise it until your blood was dripping to the floor. It would have been marvellous if she'd actually been aware of her talent, but as it was, she was just stupid. John had seen though, John had heard, and John had _known_.

Sherlock had never been able or even bothered enough to refute her logic; he _was_ cold, in more ways than one - it wasn't necessarily a bad thing, except when it was. Before John, which was far more important than Before Christ or Anno Domini, he had simply retaliated in the only way he knew how: being that much harder, that much colder, that much more cutting. Ironically, it had been only a cold comfort and making her heart bleed hadn't really made his own feel any better. Now though, there was John: warm blooded, warm hearted, just _warm_ and he shared that warmth so generously, like it wasn’t the most precious thing.

Sherlock hissed softly as a thin stripe of heat lit across his right shoulder blade. The wet warmth of a tongue against his abraded skin stung at first, but it diffused the heat, spread it further - deeper somehow - made it more than just surface pain. He made a tiny sound and pulled at his wrists, but the soft leather held him snugly; he could get out of the cuffs in a heartbeat if he wanted to, but he didn't. He would have been happy enough as well with a pair of cuffs lifted from Lestrade, but John had vetoed it, the doctor in him unhappy with the unnecessary, _unintentional_ damage the metal would cause. Sherlock didn't care one way or the other, except that John did; he could, would and had done a lot more for John and only some of it his lover knew about. John understood him as few others had even tried to do and gave him so much in return, more than he would ever have asked.

Another line of heat just above his right hip and Sherlock lifted into it, anticipating the following slick tongue, but a firm hand pressed to the small of his back, pushing him back down. He didn't need to see it, couldn't anyway with the soft rasp of silk over his eyes, but he could picture John's face: calm, intent in that way only John could be, implacable, immovable, Sherlock’s. For this, for John, Sherlock could have patience - the reward was more than worth it. He could be good; he could wait for the heat. A soft brush of lips over the base of his spine was his reward when he relaxed back onto the bed.

Another line, left shoulder, followed by the long, steady swipe of a wet tongue and to his surprise a quick nip of sharp teeth to the point of his shoulder. Sherlock made a small involuntary sound and when he felt the puff of John's breath against his skin in a silent laugh, he found himself smiling involuntarily in response.

Another stripe and another lap of the tongue, the heat ripped into his body, then smoothed into his skin with care and precision - John never spilled blood by accident. It made him breathless; it made him hard, but his arousal was a mere afterthought, the heat, John's heat, was everything. John took his time, he always did; patient and meticulous, an attention to detail in this that even Sherlock couldn't fault. The burn of the crop and the heat of his lover's mouth merged and blurred until Sherlock was not just warm, but hot right through. No longer cold hearted because of John. Only John.

Sherlock came back to himself when he heard the riding crop being set aside and felt the press of sweat damp skin as John moved to straddle his legs. John gave off heat like a furnace and even after the crop Sherlock absorbed it, luxuriated in it. Roughened hands were gentle as they slid over the marked skin of his back, trailing fire across his nerves and making him press up into the touch. Then John lifted his weight and Sherlock couldn't help arching up to keep the contact, a tiny needy sound escaping his throat, but a hand on his hip and a gentle pressure persuaded him to turn over.

It was awkward with his hands cuffed above his head and John's legs bracketing his own, but he was rewarded with the welcome weight of John settling back across his thighs. John's hands were so warm when they wrapped around his cock that Sherlock twisted his head away, which was a ridiculous impulse when what he wanted was more and now and harder and faster and _more_. The wet heat of John's mouth startled a cry from him when it unexpectedly wrapped around his cock, broad tongue sweeping spirals of heat right through him until he couldn’t think at all.

It took so little time for him to come it belied his age, experience and self-control entirely, but then it was John so it hardly mattered. John took it all, humming like it was the best thing he'd ever had, even as his hands slid up Sherlock's chest, broad and hot on Sherlock’s cooling skin, until they reached up the length of Sherlock's arms and with a flick released the cuffs.

Sherlock ripped the blindfold from his face, desire burning hot in his eyes and sat up, lifting John with him, feeling the heat of John's hard cock pressed between them. His pale, skinny fingers touched John's face wonderingly, gently, as if he might break or vanish and John's lips, swollen and red, quirked into a grin that was purely John, who had warmth enough to share and no concept at all of how rare and precious that was.

Sherlock laughed, no more than a breath ghosting over John's flushed skin, because it really was all fine; that they both knew exactly what they were doing and why only made it better. John smiled in response and tilted his head just enough, gentle indulgence for Sherlock’s neverending surprise at his love, and Sherlock wrapped his hand around his lover’s cock and began to stroke. John’s hand found Sherlock’s bare hip, fingers tightening briefly as Sherlock carefully sank his fangs into John’s beautifully offered throat. One mouthful, two, three and John’s fingers relaxed, his body slowly going limp in Sherlock’s arms. John was developing a tolerance for the narcotic effect of the bite, but he wasn’t quite there yet and Sherlock was looking forward to the day he would be. Four mouthfuls and Sherlock pulled back; of all the lessons he’d learned from his brother growing up, this one he valued most of all: how to take just enough to warm him through. Carefully Sherlock laid John down on the bed, curling himself around his unconscious lover, basking in the warmth against him and running through him, one and the same, both freely given and Sherlock knew they always would be. 

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I didn't warn for vamp!Sherlock again - my bad ;)


End file.
